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Saturday, 23 April 2016

We have a little vignette here from The Fabulist (autumn 1915 issue) that is often attributed to Lord Dunsany, though it seems it was actually penned by a fellow named William Addison Dwiggins. Rumours attributing it to Dunsany must have begun early, because in his own copy of The Fabulist he apparently wrote: "Not by me. /D." I'm posting it here just to drive the stake into that particular myth - although it is undeniably a nice piece of writing, given extra puissance by the historical circumstances.

La Dernière Mobilisation

by W.A. Dwiggins

On the left the road comes up the hill out of a pool of mist; on the
right it loses itself in the shadow of a wood. On the farther side of
the highway a hedgerow, dusty in the moonlight, spreads an irregular
border of black from the wood to the fog. Behind the hedgerow slender
poplar trees, evenly spaced, rule off the distance with inky lines.

A movement stirs the mist at the bottom of the hill. A monotonous
rhythm grows in the silence. The mist darkens, and from it there emerges
a strange shadowy column that reaches slowly up the hill, moving in
silence to the sombre and muffled beating of a drum. As it draws nearer
the shadow becomes two files of marching men bearing between them a long
dim burden.

The leaders advance into the moonlight. Each two men are carrying
between them a pole, and from pole to pole have been slung planks making
a continuous platform. But that which is heaped upon the platform is
hidden with muddy blankets.

The uniforms of the men--of various sorts, indicating that they are from
many commands--are in shreds and spotted with stains of mould and earth;
their heads are bound in cloths so that their faces are covered. The
single drummer at the side of the column carries slung from his shoulder
the shell of a drum. No flag flies from the staff at the column's head,
but the staff is held erect.

Slowly the head of the line advances to the shadow of the wood, touches
it and is swallowed. The leaders, the bare flag-staff, the drummer
disappear; but still from the shade is heard the muffled rhythm of the
drum. Still the column comes out of the mist, still it climbs the hill
and passes with its endless articulated burden. At last the rearmost
couple disengages itself from the mist, ascends, and is swallowed by
the shadow. There remain only the moonlight and the dusty hedgerow.

* * *

From the left the road runs from Belgium; to the right it crosses into
France.

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